


Punishable by Desire

by aureliu_s



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Caring Sebastian, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Moral Dilemmas, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Beta Read, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Pre-Inquisition Inquisitor, Religious Conflict, Sebastian Vael in the Chantry, Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, The Chantry (Dragon Age), Undefined Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), azriel trevelyan - Freeform, but hey at least sebastian put his coat down, sorry for hawke's floor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22471900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: "He has learnt not all attention is desirable."Sebastian has become an expert and making himself invisible when need be, and present only when requested. But life is no disappearing act. He reflects on, unbeknownst to him, his final days in the Chantry under Elthina's watchful eye, which leads him to a pivotal night on the floor of Hawke's dining room.
Relationships: Azriel Trevelyan/Sebastian Vael, Female Inquisitor/Sebastian Vael, Female Trevelyan/Sebastian Vael
Kudos: 4





	Punishable by Desire

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a line from @sweetonsebastian from tumblr, “he has learnt not all attention is desirable", and “To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves."
> 
> might change the title later bc i can't think of anything cool at the moment! not proofread bc i'm lazy & tired, might move this into the dragon age prompts later

He has learnt not all attention is desirable. 

The Chantry and Elthina, in equal measure, taught that to him. Scored it into the oozing matter of his brain with the bronze nails of Andraste’s statue in the main hall. They had taught, and he had learned, how to deflect attention. He learned how to not shrivel under Elthina’s gaze and yet still vanish when her eyes ordered him away, dismissed him from his meager and immediate service. He became one with the cool Chantry walls, melding into the stone, becoming one with the very foundations of the grand cathedral. Even the building itself had more of a presence that he did. Most times.

He has learned not all attention is desirable; Elthina’s attention at breakfast is not promising, nor her eye at night when she ascends the stairs and he is still left kneeling before the red candles that flicker and dance around him, asking for his whispered prayers, his treasonous hopes to come a little louder. Her attention when she watches him return from Sundermount or Lowtown, having branched off from the others upon arrival to Hightown; sometimes bloody, always low on arrows, always feeling alive and thrumming—Elthina watches him like a crow awaiting a corpse to circle.

But, Maker, he believes Elthina has taught him well. Perhaps the Chantry is no longer a permanent option—the spilt but innocent Vael blood that soaks into the marble of Starkhaven and stains the Minanter saw to that—but it is temporary relief for his restless soul. Perhaps his soul is done wandering, though. Perhaps it has garnered some shallow concept of purpose and fulfillment. He believes that Elthina and the Chantry have taught him well, but every time, every visit, and, as of late, every night, he finds himself desiring attention.  _ Hers _ . 

She does not visit him often in Kirkwall since the ride is long and the road not entirely safe. Bandits pose no problem on the edge of her greatsword, but the worries of her mother are stronger than any blade. But when she does visit him, he becomes utterly indisposed to Hawke and the others. Every waking moment he can spare is given to her, gifted to her manicured nails and high cheekbones, her soft lips—though he has only ever dreamed of touching them in recent years, what they would feel like on every part of him, something he had once been close to finding out. Every waking moment is devoted to the study of her pristine lavender eyes, but when he looks too closely he sees the hurt and discomfort, and he cannot help but remember that he laid those seeds there. He left her after a multitude of promises that bound him to do the exact opposite. He sees that she does not wholly enjoy sitting in the Chantry garden with him or returning up the long steps at night to deposit him like an orphaned infant at the door. 

But to feel attention again, to not be given discreet orders that make him disappear into the stonework, to  _ feel _ and  _ revel _ in someone’s gaze, to know that her mind is focused on him. It is revitalizing. He can’t simply ignore the treatment she gives him, even when Elthina tries to scold him like a puppy when they walk arm-in-arm into the Chantry in the evenings. Her touch is intoxicating, tantalizing, anticipatory, galvanizing. He can’t ignore the way she says his name, nor the times her fingers brush against his when they climb to Hightown, nor the innocently inquisitive glances she sneaks at him (or the ones he steals in return), nor the full laugh that leaves her throat. He is driven wild when she comes to see him, giving him just enough to survive and sustain himself on until the next time he sees her face, hears her voice, can know something else of her than just her handwriting in a letter that was written nearly two weeks ago. 

So this time, he does not seep into the stonework. He does not wilt away at night in the Chantry. Politely, he asks Hawke if perhaps he could use her mansion for an evening meal to share with a visiting friend. Both Garrett and Maia have seen her before, they know her beauty and charm and his undying unspoken infatuation, so they oblige and give him the mansion, the cook, and send the dwarf, his son, and the elf out for the night. And they take their mabari with him. Thank Andraste.

The cook prepares dinner and dessert, tells him which wine to pour, and also leaves. He is alone and isolated from everything else, from the Chantry, for the night, secluded. When she arrives he is a giddy boy again but loses none of his friendliness, welcoming her with a custom lingering embrace and taking her hand to bring her to the table in front of the fire laden with food. She laughs when she sees the two chairs across the wood from one another and picks one up, moving it to sit beside the other, and they eat. They laugh and talk and tell stories and drink—he had almost forgotten wine and its smooth, cool taste, silky texture. The clock strikes some ungodly hour of the night and he doesn’t care, for once, about returning to the Chantry. She looks immaculate in the firelight. Like a queen. 

Like a goddess.

“Sebastian,” she says gently, reaching out to hold his cheek with a fragile touch. He had almost forgotten his name. “Are you happy here?” The question catches him by surprise, but he doesn’t answer. He’s consumed by the persistent urge to put their lips together, to feel her tongue with his own, to hear his name spoken in an altogether different chant. And he does. He leans into her palm and then leans forward and kisses her. And he doesn’t stop; together they stand and the table is out of their way and he continues, revisiting the lips he had many times before. When her lips are pink and glistening and her tongue is limp for him he moves on, ever progressing forward, down the elegant column of her neck. Her skin is beautifully tanned and tastes of warmth and sunshine. She wears a simple dress, mahogany with long sleeves and an open back that comes to a point towards the bottom of her spine. He finds his fingers sliding it off her shoulders, and finds her voice gently reminding him of his vows. “I don’t want you to feel obliged,” she whispers, hands in his hair and eyes worried. Sebastian exhales and smiles a little. 

“I don’t.” She still loved him.

He would feel a pinch of guilt later but he didn’t now, removing the dress from her strong and luxurious body, marveling at the refined curve of her hips and the divine swell of her breasts. He kneels to ease her shoes off one by one, kisses up her legs, her firm stomach, ridding her chest of its constraints and lovingly caressing her bosom with his calloused archer’s fingers. She puts her hands over his and he doesn’t think a sight has ever rocked him as that one did, the sight of her encouragement, her alliance, her durable love, her infinite trust. Likewise, he lets her undo the clasps of his jerkin, having left his armor in the Chantry for the occasion. For some reason, they laugh together and he nearly gets stuck in his shirt. 

And then he doesn’t need to dream of her lips or nails on him anymore because they  _ are _ on him, on his chest, in his hair, revering the line of his jaw and neck. Against everything he had preached in recent years, everything he had conformed to, at least externally, together they lay on his jerkin on the floor and discover the way they would’ve worshiped one another had he not been stolen. 

The next time he goes to pray with Elthina watching him, wanting to ask where he had been but already knowing the answer. He kneels before the candles and remembers the lyrical moans of his name, the tugs at his hair, the push of her hips against his own. He goes over each inch of her warrior’s body in his head and remembers mapping it with his palms. He prays for the Maker to let him keep that one memory, if all else should be stolen. He prays for the Maker to let him keep Azriel Trevelyan, who has kept him throughout all these years. He prays for some of his indecisiveness to be burnt off, like a cauterized wound, so he can leave this Chantry and be with the woman he loves, unaware that his release will come by the end of the week.

He has learnt not all attention is desirable, but he need only desire the right attention to learn.


End file.
